


Much Too Young

by destihell, fenrirs, phantoscripts



Category: Supernatural, The Last of Us
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mentions of Suicide, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn, Whump, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23481904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destihell/pseuds/destihell, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenrirs/pseuds/fenrirs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantoscripts/pseuds/phantoscripts
Summary: It's been 20 years since the world ended. Some cities were rebuilt, with walls and run by the military, others were left to rot. Dean Winchester works, moving guns and illegal contraband for his supplier. Only when he slips up, he's forced to travel cross country to pick up a delivery for him. Along the way, he meets a timid survivor, who could barely throw a punch. Dean takes pity on him and brings him along, but it isn't long before Dean realizes he feels more than just pity for the stranger.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Much Too Young

**Author's Note:**

> tw:// death, gun and knife violence, mentions of suicide, torture, mentions of sexual assault, major character death, alcoholism, and mentions of substance abuse. 
> 
> if any of these are triggering for you, i suggest you don't read.

Silence. It seemed to hold a grip on the city of Boston as rain drizzled down from above, splashing onto the broken pavement and dripping through the cracks of most people’s homes. Home was a nice word for what could only be described as a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare. Cramped spaces that smelled of mildew and who knows what other fungi.

Night had long settled over the city, stars peeking through thin gray clouds if you looked close enough. A warm gust blew through the night air, a small taste of the summer months ahead. Winter had been brutal, with a blizzard that must have killed at least 70 people in one section. Of course, bad winters tended to predict bad years, and that usually meant dry spells.

Dean let out a sigh as he stared up at the clouds, light raindrops falling on him and streaking down the sides of his face. His leg dangled over the side of the building, swinging back and forth with the wind, as he laid on his back, letting the cool drops hit him. God knows when it was going to rain this peacefully again.

Dean had lucked out in the sense that most of his neighbors in his building didn’t ever want to be on the roof, especially not at night. They all were upstanding citizens. Rule followers. They did their work, listened to the military, and reported any illegal activity. Thank the lucky stars Dean had barely even seen their faces, let alone interact. Pushing contraband like guns and pills was punishable by death. Hell, him sitting on the rooftop past curfew was enough to get a death sentence.

Dean lifted his arm to check his watch, a gift from his brother Sam when Dean was fifteen. Sam had found it in an abandoned hotel they had scavenged, before giving it to Dean as a birthday gift. It had always never worked quite right, and Dean had to reset once every week or so, since the hands would occasionally stop moving. Still, it was a gift, and he refused to throw it out, even after he had the chance to swap it for one that worked.

He let out a huff. He had a meeting with his supplier, Ketch, in twenty minutes. It’d probably take him thirty to get across town without being spotted by patrols. That wasn’t going to fly well, but he’d be forgiven. Ketch was an impatient dick, but he looked the other way when it came to Dean. Ketch might be a prick, but he wasn’t dumb. Killing pushers for miniscule reasons, especially the best, wasn’t a good way to do business.

Dean tossed his leg back over to the hard concrete of the roof, hauling himself to his feet. He ran his fingers through his soaked hair for a moment trying to fix the unruly mess the rain had caused, before snatching up the bag at his feet. It was mostly filled with ration cards, but a couple shivs were stashed at the bottom for a worst case scenario. It never hurt either to have a gun tucked into the front of your jeans.

Getting guns was easily the hardest thing to do behind city walls. Most people were protective of their stash if they had one, and the soldiers loved to search and frisk people with no reason. Besides, a good portion of citizens didn’t have much reason to carry weapons. No clickers or runners behind city walls, so what was there to shoot? Dean practically scoffed at the thought. If you were a pusher, getting shot at was part of the job description. Not every deal was going to go smoothly.

For the most part, Dean had his fair share of good and bad deals. Some people were quick to take the merchandise and give the ration cards, others took some time to decide what they needed more, and others tried to steal. Stealing a pusher’s merchandise was a bad idea. Most pushers got shot if they lost what they had, meaning that stealing merch from them was the same as pulling the trigger themselves.

Dean let out a grunt as he hopped down from the ledge, connecting the roof to a smaller patch that used to be a garden before the outbreak. Pretty much everything in the garden had wilted and died a long time ago, but the grass was practically at his waist. Nobody lived in the building, so nobody could maintain it.

Dean crouched down, grabbing the ladder from a crack in the foundation. He gave a quick look down at the street to check for patrols, before setting it down, making a path across the street to an abandoned building.

He had shot his fair amount of people if he really thought about it. Never kids, mostly people who tried to kill him or his brother, or steal what he had. Some of them had asked for it, being infected and not wanting to turn. Those weren’t as painful, since Dean knew if he didn’t do it, someone else was going to come along and kill the guy in rabid form. It was easier to do it and save some poor soul the risk of putting down a newly turned runner.

If Dean was being honest, he did most of the confrontational work when he was on the road with Sam, before Boston. Both Dean and Sam had agreed that it was better when Sam stayed back and just let Dean take care of things. Sam knew how to shoot, it’d be stupid for Dean not to have taught him, but Dean saw the way his hands trembled when he held the gun or a knife. Killing wasn’t his baby brother's style. Dean couldn’t say it wasn’t a relief that Sam was moderately normal in a world where being a psycho was never truly off the table.

Dean was careful as he stepped off the ladder onto the unstable foundation. The building was a perfect hiding spot for when the military went to raid people’s homes for contraband or to find fugitives of the law. Vines had wrapped around just about every inch of the warehouse, and plants peeped out of it’s cracks and holes. The one disadvantage, it couldn’t hold the weight of more than two people on top. Which is why it was Dean’s favorite hiding spot, since not a soul knew about it.

He snuck across it silently, insurance for if soldiers decided to pop up out of nowhere. He had long since developed a velvet tread from sneaking around clickers. Despite being blind from years of being infected, clickers were the ones he avoided at all costs. Getting to where he was going five minutes faster didn’t matter much if he was dead, or worse, infected. More than likely though, if it was a clicker, he would be shredded to bits in a matter of minutes.

Dean was deathly silent as he weaved his way down the side of the building that had collapsed, taking him down to pitch-black alley. He reached down to his belt, clicking on the flashlight that he had strapped to it, before continuing on his path. Thankfully, most soldiers didn’t come down this way, since it was home to rats and homeless people. Most were disabled, and since they couldn’t work, they weren’t allowed homes, nor rations. They had to beg for food or dumpster dive. Thankfully, they all loathed the military, so Dean was often greeted with smiles and a friendly hello, and they’d give him tips about places to avoid. In return, he’d sneak rations to them when he could.

He felt his shoulders slump as he stood upright again, a small barrel fire coming into his view. He felt a small smirk creep across his face as he rounded the corner, seeing a huddle of people on the ground, sheltering themselves and their fire from the rain. By now the rain had gone from a light shower to a downpour, and Dean could see fifteen year old Kevin Tran hiding under his jacket. The kid gave a weak smile as he saw Dean, giving a tiny wave.

“Hey Dean,” Kevin said through chattering teeth.

“Heyo kid,” Dean smiled. “How you holding up through the weather?”

Kevin shrugged. “Could be worse. Haven’t gotten sick yet.”

“That’s good,” Dean said. “Anyone come through here that I should know about?”

“Nope,” Kevin said. “Some drunks the other day, but no soldiers or pushers. I told them to get lost or they’d regret it.”

Dean slung the backpack off his shoulder, before shoving his hand in and tossing a small stack of ration cards to the kid. “Nice work.”

Kevin caught them mid-air, shoving them into a torn bag filled with ration cards and shivs. “Thanks.”

Dean swung his bag back on, giving Kevin a nod before slipping past him, and continuing down the alley. Dean didn’t want to imagine what would happen to the idiot who ever tried to steal Kevin’s bag. Dean had his fair share of scars from stab wounds, more than enough to know it hurt like a bitch. Jagged, rough knives like shivs were nothing to play around with.

Kevin had been working for Dean almost three years now. He had dropped out of school early to work since his mother had very suddenly died of heart failure, and the rest of his family had died before they ever made it to Boston. About only four months into working, a piece of factory equipment fell on him and shattered his hip. The doctors didn’t bother “wasting” supplies on him, saying he was going to be out of work indefinitely, no matter what they did. And since people who didn’t work didn’t get homes, Kevin had to reside on the streets. People on the streets normally earned their share by being lookouts for pushers, which is why Kevin was quick to ask to be a lookout in exchange for ration cards and the occasional shiv.

Dean was pulled out of his thoughts and felt his heart almost stop as he saw a flashlight turn around the corner, Dean let out a slight gasp out of instinct before ducking behind a dumpster. He turned his flashlight off in an instant, before reaching his hand towards the grip of his gun. He hoped to God that the rain had drowned out his scuffled steps as he had rushed to hide.

He felt his breathing halt as the light from the soldier’s flashlight beamed down the alley, next to Dean’s face. Quiet, tentative footsteps approached, and Dean had inched the gun out of his jeans, cocking it as gently as he could.

“Anybody there?” a light, nervous voice called out. They couldn’t be more than nineteen.

Dean flexed his fingers on the handle of his pistol. All this kid needed to do was walk away. If the soldier saw his face, he’d draw a gun to shoot Dean since it was past curfew. And that meant Dean would have to fire first, and he really didn’t want shooting someone barely out of school on his conscience.

Somehow, for what feels like the first time in years, Dean got lucky. The footsteps stop, only for a brief moment, before they fade away in the other direction. Dean sits in wait for only a minute or two, but it feels like an eternity before he lets out a relieved sigh and stuffs his gun back in his pants.

He hadn’t realized his hand had been on his necklace until he moved it down to rest on his thigh. He had carried his mother’s wedding ring from before the world went to hell, but when it went down, he had found a black string on the road, and tied it around to wear. His father had made a snide comment about how men didn’t wear jewelry, but Dean had ignored him. He smiled as he’d like to think his father would be horrified at his son’s amount of rings and knuckle tattoos. When it came down to it though, Dean knew his father would have focused a little bit more on the surplus of male booty calls Dean had.

Despite his father’s clear distaste towards tattoos, Dean had more inked skin than normal at this point. Dozens up and down both arms, both knuckles and fingers donning a few, and his torso and back practically a canvas. He had one or two running up his neck, so the only places that weren’t touched were below the waist and his face. His father probably would have a stroke if he had lived to see how his son had turned out.

After waiting another minute, give or take, to see if another patrol came through, Dean hopped up from the ground. He glanced past his hiding spot, before reaching down to his belt to turn his flashlight back on and continue on his way.

_ xxxx _

Dean was easily fifteen minutes late by the time he managed to reach the abandoned restaurant where he always met up with Ketch. He did his best to smooth down his sopping wet clothes, and tried to slick his hair back, so he didn’t look completely disheveled. Ketch was annoyingly uptight about appearances, despite the fact that ninety percent of his workforce were people struggling to get by.

Through the windows, a dim light flickered, probably from candles. Ketch was definitely inside, cussing out Dean for being late. Dean adjusted his shirt once again as he walked over to the door, quickly slipping inside before he was close-lined directly in the face. He quickly crashed into the floor, and scrambled to reach for his gun, before he heard the ominous click of a shotgun being cocked and shoved directly at his face.

He put his hands up in surrender, biting his tongue as he saw the all too familiar face of Bela Talbot, Ketch’s favorite bodyguard. She tilted her head, giving him a coy smile and a quick wave with her free hand, before Dean’s attention was drawn to Ketch, standing in the middle of the room with his hands jammed into his suit pockets.

“Of all my pushers, Dean,” he said, disappointment underlying in his tone. “I would have figured you could at least show up on time.”

“Seriously?” Dean scoffed, spitting blood onto the floor from where he had been hit in the mouth. “I got fucking knocked into the floor because I’m a couple minutes late? Would you prefer I’d been shot by a patrol on my way?”

Bela turned the gun, slamming the handle of it into Dean’s gut, making him let out a groan as he winced from the pain. He let his head down onto the floor as he clutched his stomach, barely able to not double over from the pain.

“Watch your manners,” she said, moving the gun back to have the barrel aimed at his head.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Ketch said, meandering over to him. “You and I both know I wouldn’t pummel you just for being late.”

Dean coughed, turning over to climb onto his knees and look up at Ketch, hand still on his stomach for the agonizing pain. He opened his mouth to speak, before feeling metal connect with his face, more specifically his cheek. Tiny drops of blood oozed down his face, staining the floor as they slipped off his skin.

“ _That_ was for being late,” Ketch said, no change in his tone as he took off the brass knuckles as quickly as he put them on.

Dean wiped his cheek, his blood boiling with rage. “So explain to me,” Dean spat through a cough, still catching his breath from before, “why the fuck I’m here, if you’re just going to beat on me.”

Ketch crouched down to Dean’s level, tilting his head with an almost amused expression. He put his finger under Dean’s chin, tilting his head up. “Mr. Winchester, I think we both know why you’re here.”

“Elaborate,” Dean said, venom laced in his tone. It was clear that Dean would have loved to do nothing more than put the egotistical bastard in his place, but the shotgun destroyed any chance of that.

“March 8th,” Ketch said, rising back to his normal stature. “The reason you’re here is March 8th.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean muttered. “We both know it was either drop the merch, or get caught and killed, and still lose the merch. The only decision to make was whether I wanted to live or die.”

“Yes,” Ketch said. “That's how you put it. However, I didn’t realize how much the buyer wanted those guns until a couple of days ago. And now, I’m in his debt, as he paid upfront.”

“So what? You’re gonna shoot me?” Dean said. “Because we both know I’d already be dead if that was your plan.”

“He wants me to move something,” Ketch spoke, disdain in his voice. “A bag full of materials. I don’t even know what it really is he wants moved. And it’s because of you.”

“Get to the fucking point Ketch,” Dean snapped, before feeling the barrel of the shotgun on the side of his head, shutting him up.

“And _since_ it’s your fault,” Ketch said. “You are going to move it for me.”

Dean gave a puzzled expression, before wincing as he stumbled to stand up right. “You want me to move extra across the city? Ketch, that’s not a problem. I do that for you anyways.”

Ketch chuckled, moving to get in Dean’s face. “You stupid, stupid boy. It’s not across the city. It’s across the bloody country. Sacramento, to be exact.”

Dean scoffed, backing away from him. “You can’t actually expect me to go all the way across the damn country and back just to deliver a bag. Hell, you don’t even know what’s in the bag.”

Ketch shrugged, crossing his arms. “Not my problem.”

Dean glowered at the floor, flexing his hand in anger. “And if I say no?”

Ketch smiled wickedly. “Dean, I believe we both know the answer to that question.”

Dean could feel his heart pound in his chest. Travelling into a massive city like that with contraband was suicide, if he even managed to survive getting to California. He had survived for years outside of Boston, but the memories were something Dean tried to shove to the back of his mind. Just because he had survived didn’t mean he was proud of what he did _to_ survive.

Dean swallowed, wiping his cheek, the blood painting his knuckles red. “Fine,” he said, defeated. It wasn’t like he had any other options in front of him. “When do you want me to leave?”

Bela lowered the shotgun from Dean’s head, and Ketch rested his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Tomorrow would be splendid.”

_xxxx_

Rain was a shitty cover as Castiel snuck around the corner of a bombed out restaurant, but you make due with what you have.

His shoes squelched as rain leaked out of his sneakers, a consequence of running from clickers in the rain. He had barely managed to climb his way to safety, and some large puddles had been stepped in along the way. He was lucky he didn’t trip in a pothole, considering how dark it was. In the end, he got the medical kit the military had left behind when they cleared out of one part of the city, but it was a good idea to lay low and look exclusively for food for the next couple of days.

Castiel’s only remaining knife had snapped on one of the clickers, which meant at the moment, he was defenseless. Never a good thing. Most people he ran into left him alone, since they knew him, and they would rather be left on their own, but a runner couldn’t care less who he was. He just prayed he could get back to shelter before the sun came up. That’s when the raiders came out to play.

Most raiders were young guys, in their twenties like Castiel, but most of them had seen it all. They stuck together, typically for safety, but some got along because of how bloodthirsty they were. They tended to kill and loot anyone they saw, and god forbid you were a woman. It was gut wrenching to have to sit and listen to what they did to women they found when they were close to his shelter. He would do something if he could, but when you lose all your guns, your best bet of surviving is being a ghost.

Thankfully, most raiders disappeared at night. Some of them came out to make sure clickers and runners didn’t get too close to their base, but they were dense as a brick, so sneaking past them was relatively easy. Worst case scenario, he’d throw a bottle at their head, and clickers would come running. It’d be easier if he could just come up behind them and knock them out on his own, but Castiel was maybe a hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet, and he was just shy of six feet tall. He wasn’t much of a match for the well fed brutes.

He inwardly let out a sigh of relief as he approached his shelter, small rays of light streaking over the mostly abandoned city. He did a double take to make sure nobody was around, before nudging the dumpster to the side to reveal doors to a small bunker. Crouching down, he grunted as he pulled them open, before stepping down onto the ladder. He made sure to close one, before lowering the other and yanking the dumpster back into place, and then dropping the second door before tying the doors closed with a chain he had found.

He moved down the ladder with ease, before dropping onto the hard concrete floor. It was an old bunker built to withstand blizzards, probably made in the early eighties. It was below a bar that had been completely trashed and raided, but thankfully the only way in was around back, and he seemed to be the only person who had known about it in a long time.

The bunker wasn’t much when Castiel found it, but he had mildly turned it around. Blankets were nailed across the walls, keeping the cold out, and he had managed to seal up the roof, keeping it from dripping when it rained. More blankets were strewn about the floor, all of them not wool in case a lantern broke. There were at least a dozen books scattered around the room, and countless journals and papers. There wasn’t exactly much else to do inside when it was still daytime, other than sleep.

Castiel stood on his toes, reaching up and turning on the lantern he had tied to the ceiling in replacement of the lightbulb. Dim light covered the room, and Castiel tossed off his bag before plopping down on the small bed in the corner. It was rusty and creaked when he moved, but the elevation kept away from the cold floor when it got cold.

He leaned over, grabbing the med kit out of his backpack to open it as he sat back up, the mattress bouncing underneath him. It took a moment to pull the plastic box open, before Cas looked inside to see its contents.

He rummaged through it, trying to find what would be useful in the near future. A roll or two of bandages, rubbing alcohol, cast wraps, and amoxicillin. Nothing too advanced, but it was still nice to have in case of emergency. Infection was easy to come by if you weren’t careful, and it was lethal left unchecked.

Castiel sighed, stuffing it back into his bag, and laying down. It had taken a long time for him to catch his breath after his sprint away from clickers. He was thin, but it wasn’t from being in shape. Food was hard to come by, especially food that wasn’t stale or half eaten. Settling with a loaf of bread with fungus was never a good meal, but it was what kept him alive. Besides, raiders didn’t notice missing food as long as it wasn’t worth eating to them anyway. Some had been dumb enough to try and steal more noticeable items, like canned beans or peaches, and that’s when they noticed. Then, he was left to find food somewhere else for the meantime, until they caught someone.

If Castiel really thought about it, he hadn’t had a proper meal since he was six, at a military base for people who weren’t infected, when the military still cared about everyone. Even then, it was army rations. At six, he barely choked it down, but now, at twenty-three, the thought of having a meal that wasn’t spoiled could easily make his mouth water.

Cas laid a hand across his stomach. He could feel his ribs easily. Maybe he’d have some muscle if he ate enough, but Cas wasn’t exactly looking for anyone to impress. The last boyfriend he had was almost six years ago, and it was barely a relationship. They both took to each other because they needed comfort, someone to get through the pain with. It ended quickly though, with his boyfriend going out on a supply run from the group Castiel was still with at the time, and never returning. It wasn’t hard to piece together what happened.

Cas felt a pinch at his chest from the memory, before letting out a deep breath. The perks of being alone, you only had to worry about yourself. When he was still with his older brothers, it brought the security of trust, but the stress about losing them was hellish.

Still, as Cas turned on his side, hoping to get a dreamless sleep, he felt a longing tug at his heart. It had been a long time since he had a friendly interaction with anybody, let alone get that close.

 _You’re better off alone_ , he thought.

But as Castiel drifted off, the world fading to black around him, he knew that he couldn’t force himself to believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew, i don't know about you guys but i'm excited for this! i've always loved zombie apocalypse stories, and i'm a sucker for deancas, so i'm gonna have a lot of fun with this. feel free to give me some feedback, my handle on twitter is @deanscstiel, so message me if you'd like, or just give me a follow, i'd greatly appreciate it. hope you enjoyed, next chapter will be up within a week to two weeks. peace! <3


End file.
